Expatria: The Box Set (29 page)

CHAPTER 5

The soil was light and mixed with flakes of shale. It drained freely, allowing the damp of the night's rain to dry quickly. Kasimir Sukui was fortunate: he had spent the night under canvas, as he had the two previous nights. Others had been forced to remain in the open, sheltering amidst tombs and sarcophagi, or under the boughs of the boondog trees.

The tents had been erected during the first evening. Six of them, each large enough to accommodate ten adults. From the graffiti on the canvas Sukui recognised that at least two of the tents had once belonged to Chet Alpha's Pageant of the Holy Charities. Sukui feared for his friends in the Pageant. If the tents had been taken by force then what...?

Sukui stopped himself at this point, as he had learnt to do over these four days. Speculation only bred uncertainty. It was not a productive mode of thought. It was not how Sukui ordinarily ordered his thinking.

He stood and stretched, watching the last of the soil filter through his fingers. As each day passed the likelihood of more conflict increased. The Convent could not hold its hostages in this cemetery indefinitely. He looked up at the sky and decided that the grey-white veil would not produce a great deal more rain, if any at all. These skies were typical of his home in Alabama City.

The Deadacre lay amongst the Sylesian foothills, eight kilometres inland of Newest Delhi. It was set in a clearing in a small vale, woods and farmland surrounding it on three sides, the rising hills marking the fourth boundary. The hostages had the freedom of the entire cemetery. Their tents were set in a corner two hundred metres—give or take twenty—from the grave of Greta Olfarssen-Hanrahan. Surrounding them on all sides were evenly spaced Conventist Guards, their crisp white tents located just inside the cemetery's ornamental gates.

It was a difficult situation. Sukui could see no real means of progress. He had tried negotiation but the Matres were not interested in him, despite his credentials as a respected representative of Prime Salvo Andric of Alabama City. The previous day he had finally accepted an unsavoury fact: he, Kasimir Sukui, did not know what to do.

He looked up now to see Mathias Hanrahan approaching, followed by three young members of the Primal Guard.

'Sukui-san,' said Mathias, nodding in acknowledgement. The stubble on Mathias's chin made him look like a labourer or one of the wandering bodhis, the vagrant Jesus-Buddhist preachers earning their way to the heavens. Sukui's thin grey wisps of beard would not need any maintenance for at least ten more days.

'You look as you did when we first met, Mister Hanrahan,' said Sukui, his hands folded in front of him. 'Like an open gin-shell ready to be triggered.'

Mathias stopped before him. 'I've been speaking with the Prime,' he said. 'We have to do something, Sukui-san, we can't just sit here and give them an easy ride.'

'Your proposal?' Sukui tipped his head to one side and waited.

'What could they do if we all stood up and started to walk?' asked Mathias, looking to his companions for support. 'They can't shoot and knife every one of us. If it came to that we could at least make a fight of it... ' He shrugged and stopped speaking, made uncomfortable by Sukui's scrutiny.

'You have counted our numbers and those of our captors? You have assessed our strengths and weaknesses? Or are you less patient than that?'

Mathias did not answer.

'You were once one of my finest students,' said Sukui. 'Yet now you forget your education. There are one hundred and ninety-six of us. There are sixty-four who I would have considered fit and trained for hostilities, but nine of those suffered injury in our capture. Between twenty-eight and thirty-seven of our number would prove a physical hindrance if we chose to act. I have not assessed the likelihood of a significant proportion supporting your plans.' Sukui bowed his head. 'I have not been "just sitting here", Mister Hanrahan. While my body has been inactive my brain has not been so.'

'But we can't just...' Mathias did not finish his sentence.

'The number of our captors varies, but it never falls below three hundred. A high proportion of them are trained troops. They would not have to shoot or knife us,' said Sukui. 'They could simply stand in our path. The probability is high that they would then abuse our position as captives.'

'OK, OK,' said Mathias, although he did not look convinced.

'They will be bringing our food soon. Stay with me, Mathias, and we can talk further.'

A few minutes later queues began to form alongside a huge vat of congealed sukiyaki. Sukui had seen the wagon arriving, the one that always appeared approximately five minutes before the vat was wheeled out. He had studied the organisation of the prison camp in great detail.

They took their bowls and sat on the flat top of a finely carved sarcophagus.

Sukui ate his meal in silence. He knew he must not cut himself off, but he was not at all keen on the conversation of Mathias Hanrahan and his friends. They were still talking about escape, but where was there to escape to? The Conventists would not have struck in the Deadacre alone, there must be some kind of rationale to their actions.

Taking Sukui's lead the four were discussing the costs and risks in a more pragmatic manner. 'What is the relative cost of a death?' asked Sukui, the only time he spoke. Such an emotional outburst was so unlike him that it stopped Mathias in mid-sentence.

Sukui bowed his head and returned to his sukiyaki. He did not want to believe that the pressure was affecting him but then—he caught himself out, with a smile—such a thought, in itself, was out of character, a sure sign that he was suffering from stress.

There was more to it than simple fatigue and worry, though. Only a matter of days earlier, Kasimir Sukui had killed a man.

It had been his first and last murder.

The equilibrium of his mind had been upset ever since. He often wondered if he would recover. The incident had taken place in Alabama City and his victim had been Siggy Axelmeyer, cousin to Prime Salvo Andric.

Axelmeyer had been orchestrating a revolt against the Primacy and Sukui had somehow been linked to his clandestine activities. Axelmeyer's actions had led to a number of deaths and the prospects of life under his rule were not good. The Prime had made it clear that Axelmeyer had to go. It had been a terrible situation, full of unpleasantness and suspicion.

There had been no rational path to follow.

One evening, Sukui had found himself alone with Axelmeyer on the balcony of Canebrake House. He had still been undecided about which side he should take. And Axelmeyer had leaned out over the railings, his arms outstretched to embrace his city. He had been drinking vodka-dries when Sukui had arrived, his balance had been unsteady. The railing had been flimsy, it had suffered Axelmeyer's weight a number of times before.

Sukui had stepped forward to push—he remembered the rasp of Axelmeyer's jacket against his fingers—and the railing had shattered. The probability was high that the railing would have shattered in any case. But Sukui knew that the intention had been there, he had made his decision. Every night since then Sukui had been woken by a nightmare: that split second when Axelmeyer had looked back over his shoulder, knowing that this was his end. Every morning he was glad to be awake again, free of the risk of another awful dream.

It upset his reason. The animal spectre of the nightmare was overtaking his rationality, it was shaking the foundations of his self-discipline.

'I am going to tour the perimeter,' he said, excusing himself from the gravy-stained marble slab that had been their dinner table and hurrying away without waiting for a response.

The cemetery's boundary wall was rough and uneven, its mean height roughly level with Sukui's shoulders. He followed it for a distance, studying the patterns of lichen on the northward curves of the stone blocks' surfaces. He stopped the reflex movement of his hand in search of his notebook. That had been confiscated on the first evening.

He did not regret the loss of his notes, more the facility to actually make them. It was the writing that lodged facts in the mind, not their presence on paper.

He looked up into the overhanging boughs of a boondog tree, spotted the calling kookaburra and walked on. He was nearing one of the food tables, his circle of the perimeter approaching completion. The usual high density of Conventist Guards stood vigilantly around and Sukui looked at each of them in turn.

And then he recognised the Conventist tidying dishes on the surface of the workbench. It was a man, a black diagonal across the chest of his white jacket marking him as kleiner, not a mere unadopted concessionary male. Since coming north, Sukui had become more certain of the divisions amongst the Conventists: the Matre-Little Sister-Daughter triune, the distinction between kleiner and concessionary males. They were a disciplined grouping, their hierarchy was formal and rigid.

Sukui approached the serving bench, picking up two bowls as he went.

The kleiner was tall and silver-haired. He carried himself with the dignity of the devout. Sukui had met him at a small shrine in the Joplin quarter, shortly after his arrival in Newest Delhi.

Sukui dipped the bowls into the vat, now filled with lukewarm water. 'Good morning, Sister-klein.' Sukui had learnt the correct form of address. He wiped the bowls clean with his fingers. 'We met at the Tributary on Cathay Street. My name is Sukui-san.' He bowed his head and wondered if there would be any response.

The kleiner looked at him uncertainly, then appeared to recognise him. 'Sukui-san,' he repeated, the sureness returning to his eyes. 'I am Abdus Lamb. We met, I remember.' He crossed himself and returned to his work.

Sukui walked a short distance away. Finding another bowl, he returned to Lamb and washed it in the vat. 'I come from the south,' said Sukui. 'It is colder there, but just as wet.' He smiled but there was no response from Abdus Lamb.

'I have been in regular contact with our friends in orbit.'

This time there was a response, a sudden hard stare. 'You are with the Pageant of Charities?'

Sukui noted the hostility. He was making progress. 'No,' he said. 'I travelled with a small group of Charities but that is the limit of my connection. I am a man of science. My friends in orbit say there is a ship on its way from Earth. Have you heard the news?'

Again there was a hostile response, a sharp gesture of dismissal. Sukui had formed an emotive link. It might prove useful at some stage. 'I have heard the pageanteers' lies,' said Lamb. 'You say you're a man of science...' He shook his head and did not finish his sentence.

Sukui had heard of this before, but he had never confirmed it. The Conventists did not believe that there was a colony living in the orbital remains of the Ark Ships. It followed inevitably from there that they would not believe in the approaching ship from Earth. Again, Sukui wished he had access to his notebook, he found this false logic a fascinating phenomenon.

'
Abdus
.'

Sukui turned. The approaching Matre had used Abdus Lamb's name like a whip, cracking it over the kleiner's flank. Lamb did not look up. Instead, he tipped the vat so that its contents poured away into the gravel that topped a nearby grave; gathering the bowls, he hurried away.

'You mustn't try to poison the child's mind,' the Matre said to Sukui. Her tone was chiding and there was something in her expression that told Sukui she was very angry. She was a stocky woman with even bristles of steel-grey hair and a square-boned face. Sukui had learnt that her name was Maye Cyclades. Her robe was dove grey and around her neck there hung a crucifix carrying the twisted form of a smiling madonna.

'I feel confined,' said Sukui, shrugging and assuming a jaded look. 'I met Abdus in prayer fifteen days ago.' He spread the palms of his hands and the Matre looked at him curiously. 'I wish to return to Alabama City. The Lord Salvo will be concerned for me. My friends in orbit will have informed him of my disappearance.'

The contact he had created was suddenly broken.

He forged onwards. 'Preparations for the arrival of the Terran ship will be well under way. My Prime will wish to contact me. Could a link be formed so that I could talk to orbit?'

'Your poison may work with kleiner but not with the sorority.' He had disturbed her, she was becoming aggressive. 'There is no ship. There is no orbit. There is only Expatria.'

But Sukui had seen the look in her eyes: she believed in GenGen. He had originally thought that this coup attempt had been a natural progression from their failure to gain more subtle control of Newest Delhi. Now he saw that there was more to it than that. The Convent had acted in direct response to the approaching ship from Earth. At some level they
believed
.

Sukui bowed his head to the Matre and backed away like a good Little Sister. It was time to reassess his analysis of the Convent. He had discovered their primary motivation.

~

The sun shone weakly through a thin veil of cloud at the horizon.

There had been a little rain during the day, but no more than Kasimir Sukui had anticipated. It would be dark within the next ten minutes. Night fell more rapidly this close to the equator.

They were to be allowed a fire this evening. Sukui was returning from a patch of raffia oak just beyond the cemetery's perimeter with his arms full of kindling. The small party of firewood collectors had been surrounded by three times their number of Conventist Guards but the sense of freedom beyond that shoulder-high wall had been fascinating. It had reminded Sukui of how much he was still an animal—with animal instincts, animal fears—despite his years of asceticism and self-control.

He dropped his bundle of sticks and stood back. He stretched his body, testing each muscle's tension with a yogi's discipline. He was not accustomed to this kind of work.

He spotted two figures heading for the tents and hurried after them. 'Prime Edward,' he said, catching them up. 'Captain Anderson.' He bowed his head to Edward and the head of the Primal Guard in turn. 'I wonder, if you could spare me a few moments of your time?' He controlled his breathing so that he would not appear out of condition. He had always believed that the state of the body had a profound bearing on the state of one's mind. Preserving his physique had always been the rational thing to do.